


Happy Endings

by HepG2



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Massage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensation Play, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: There's nothing erotic about getting massages in a licensed spa. Yet, here he is, battling erections after another, courtesy of this masseur randomly assigned to him that evening. Wonderful fingers he has, that Steve Rogers.[A non-superpowered Marvel AU in which Steve Rogers is a masseur attending to the needs of a hotel client, Tony Stark, hotshot EVP of Cetta Therapeutics.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, beautiful people! As the year 2017 draws to an end, I want to express my sincere appreciation to all your support in the last 2 years I've been on AO3. All your kudos, comments, bookmarks and subscriptions mean a lot to me, and I hope that these stories have entertained you as much I'd liked them to (if they're meant to be entertaining in the first place, 'cause I've written some morbid stuff, too, but hey, who am I to judge :p). I'd like to gift all of you something for Christmas and the holiday seasons, but I don't think there's a consensus of genre/kink that will work for all of you, so I'm going with the safest best, PWP XD Because, why the heck not :p 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this! Merry Christmas, and cheers!

Tony Stark used to be enthusiastic about this job. He shows up at work two hours before everyone else does, and leaves his office near midnight. It’s not stipulated anywhere in his contract that he should work like a dog, but he does. It’s not even about the money. He’s getting loads of them, just to be clear, but he’s not driven by the zeroes trailing his pay check, or the size of his corner office on the twenty-fifth floor.  

 

He believes, all right? He _believes_ that immunotherapy is the cure for “Big C”. Turning on one’s immune system as the ultimate defence against aberrant cells is genius. No graft rejection, no delayed effects. He’s talking up to eighty percent of clinical remission and improved survival in rodents. Not saying it’s doing terribly bad in the humans, by the way. Emily Whiteheads was seven and critically ill with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia when she received the world’s first T-cell therapy in 2012. Three weeks later, the doctors couldn’t detect cancer cells in her marrow and peripheral circulation. Five years on, she still has her modified, super-soldier T-cells coursing her veins. Fantastic news all around, indicated by the pop of champagne corks planetwide.

 

But life is equal part comedy and tragedy, and the rug is pulled from under their feet when rival company Juno Therapeutics announced five deaths in their ROCKET clinical trial for the same T-cell therapy. Five deaths from cerebral oedema is all it takes for them to scrap the programme altogether. It’s not fun for Juno. Company stock price nosedives. People’s faith in an actual cure for cancer has never been so thoroughly shaken.

 

Tony Stark is Executive Vice President of Strategic Partnerships and Business Development of guess where, Cetta Therapeutics, a Boston-based biotech company specialising in virus specific T-cells, meaning, fucking _immunotherapy._ It’s not exactly a trending research area for all the aforementioned reasons. It’s not all gloom and doom, either. Fatalities in translational studies happen every once in a while. The folks are trying their darndest to save people. Do not take that away from them, despite what the headlines may say.

 

That’s why Tony is here in San Diego on Christmas week, some three thousand miles away from home. Tragic, really. He has exactly one lazy cat waiting for him in his posh penthouse-bachelor pad. Period.

 

Welcome to the corporate world, baby. A constant pedal to the metal, running on fumes… it’s not a baggage-friendly lifestyle.

 

The real reason he’s unpacking his suitcase after having checked into a Pendry suite is because cash is king, even in this business. The God-honest truth is, it’s not cheap to run a pharmaceutical firm, and it’s not cheap to operate the labs. Labour alone takes a huge chunk of the fund, and that’s where Tony comes in. He’s meant to expand that cash pool so the folks on Cetta’s payroll keep their asses in their respective seats and make this all work somehow.

 

“We’re uniquely positioned to cornering the immunotherapy market. Our proprietary platform has consistently produced T-cells that are sensitive towards target antigens, and showed extended survival _in vivo._ ”

It’s the generic pitch when he approaches potential investors for money. He’s got a few to systematically rendezvous with on his appointment list. He’s got one tomorrow, actually. He’ll work his charm, make them believe in this as much as he does, and the game’s in the bag, yes?

The suite comes with complimentary spa packages – Tony’s delighted by this card that’s been carefully laid out on his desk – and immediately calls the front desk to book a session. There’s a masseur available in the afternoon – in exactly one hour, in fact – and Tony considers. He’s not very big on massages, but when he does get some, he prefers female fingers working his knots. Seems like such a waste to let a freebie like this go by though, so Tony says his yes, and goes to shower.

 

At three on the dot, he makes his way down to the massage room on the fifth floor. It’s dimly lit and doesn’t smell like a Chinese funeral home for a change, so thank God for keeping it real and _light_ on the incense. Tony takes his clothes off and puts on the disposable pants arranged neatly atop a stack of towels, and waits. Which fortunately doesn’t take long because time is another thing he’s hard-strapped for, and holy shit –

 

“Mr Stark? Good afternoon, I’m Steve, the masseur attending to you this session.”

 

“Steve,” Tony repeats the name, sees if it rolls comfortably off his tongue. “I’m uh, pleased…” Great choice of diction there, doesn’t sound the least bit lecherous. “I mean, I’m looking forward. To this. It’s been quite some time since the last one, so… it’s quite an unusual experience.”

 

“A first time for everything,” Steve smiles wanly. He closes the door with a curt click, and motions for Tony to get on the table. “Lie on your back, make yourself comfortable. I’ll ready the oils and lotions. Is the temperature and brightness comfortable?”

 

It’s getting hot in here. “It’s fine.”

 

“I’ll be just a moment.”

 

The front desk didn’t tell him Steve the masseur is a Greek bust in the flesh. Describing Steve alone will downgrade Tony’s sprawling vocabulary to that of a horny teenager’s, and he can’t have that. Reason is clear. He digs chicks, chicks dig him.

 

No homo, brother.

 

But, beautiful things are meant to be admired, aren’t they? When Steve re-enters the room with a pouch of some sort dangling around his angular hips, Tony looks pointedly away and promptly smashes his face into his pillow.

 

“Shall we begin, Mr Stark?”

 

He mumbles “Yes” into said pillow, and all that comes out is a muffled “Oomph.” Which is good enough for Steve nevertheless, and strong, nimble fingers ease into his shoulders. God, it is heavenly. Tony loses himself into the kneading, and finds himself lulled into a sense of… being. Just, being. An odd place to be, where there’s only him in the present. No past to escape from, no future to worry about. The oil Steve is rubbing into his flank begins to sizzle, and Tony welcomes it. It’s hot and cool like the oxymoron that is the business of medical sciences. Did he mention that a course of T-cell therapy is estimated to be a quarter million dollars a pop? For something that is only administered after a patient has exhausted all other conventional therapies, for something that is basically a patient’s last resort, man… a quarter million dollars for a shot at life.

 

A quarter million dollars that most people don’t have in hand.

 

“Is this uncomfortable, Mr Stark?”

 

“… No.”

 

“I’ll be using more force here. Your waist feels terribly tense. Any recent injuries around this area that you’re aware of?”

 

He remembers helping a _very_ attractive secretary to refill the copier with paper. “I uh, sprained my back when I tried to lift a stack of paper off the floor.”

 

“OK, we’ll see what we can do.”

 

Steve’s voice is deep and hypnotising. Tony closes his eyes as the fingers slip past the waistband of his flimsy paper pants. Naughty, but they ease upward again and don’t trespass anymore. Steve drizzles more oil over the thighs, and he works on them. Up and down, up and down, and the oil burns as it did over his sides.

 

Fingernails graze the underside of Tony’s buttocks. At the first twitch, Steve withdraws his hands. He returns with a firm nudge around the knees, and Tony parts his legs obligingly. He doesn’t remember if massages often proceed this way – Steve is showing his inner thighs a good time, and again, fingernails scrape relentlessly against his bare skin.

 

And then, those large hands push upward from the back of his knee towards his buttocks again, past the _hem of his pants_ and all the way up his _actual_ mounds, long thumbs dragging along the thighs.

 

Tony does jerk away at that point, and Steve accedes. His touches mellow out, and he goes nowhere close to those red-alert zones. Tony’s calves and ankles might be mewling with joy, but the half-rigid mass pressed between his lower abdomen and the bed is every bit disappointed.

 

And confused. Thoroughly confused.

 

Steve ends the session ten minutes after, whereupon Tony gratefully covers his lower half with a proffered towel.

 

“Would you like to book another session tomorrow, Mr Stark?”

 

“… Sure, why not?”


	2. Chapter 2

The pitch would’ve gone much better if the agency reps had two brain cells to rub together.

 

Tony pulls the sash to his bathrobe together with more force than necessary, and the fluffy cotton swished around his waist. He’s back in the same massage room, perched on the edge of the same bed he lay on yesterday evening. He swings his ankles back and forth petulantly, waiting for the masseur – or masseuse, they didn’t inform him when he confirms his booking today – and his heart does a little flip when Steve ambles through the door.

 

“Hello, Mr Stark.”

 

“Hello.”

 

Calm the heck down.

 

“Waist still giving you problems?”

 

“Nope,” Tony blurts out, as Steve goes to his trolley of wonder oils and lotions.

 

“Any specific areas you’d like me to focus on?”

 

“… I don’t think so?”

 

“Lie face down.” Tony scoots to the other side of the bed, when Steve waves his hand vaguely. “You’ll have to take your robes off. There’s a pair of pants and some towels over there that you can use.”

 

There’s _something_ prepared for him all right, so Tony grabs the pile of towels arranged beside his pillow. “Just the towels, Steve.”

 

“That’s odd. I can look for the pants, but if you don’t mind draping the towels over your waist – yes, like that.”

 

Oh, boy. Still, there’s no need to be shy here, is there? The extra self-consciousness comes from having to strip before another man whose physique is every bit of Aryan perfection, whereas Tony himself is everything but.

 

“Would you like me to leave the room?”

 

“That won’t be necessary.” Because shooing Steve off makes him look like a prude. He can handle some nakedness – this is really nothing compared to teaching a boardroom of hairless apes to look past the speedbumps into the bigger picture. Seriously, what’s one or five casualties when they are looking at a potentially multibillion dollars business?

 

Steve is gentler with him today. His large hands are as warm and kind as Tony remembers, and they linger by his neck and shoulders. “This here feels extra tense. Long day?”

 

Tony kind of misses the time someone ask him how his day goes. Last time this happened was three months ago? Over a cold spread of dinner, and only because he and the girlfriend-of-the-season felt that fifteen minutes of silent chewing wasn’t bearable anymore. “Let’s just say at this rate, I’m gonna be in San Diego for a while.” Long fingers trace down the curvature of his spine, and they dwell in the dimples of his waist. His towel lies precariously atop his buttocks, where Steve’s knuckles barely graze the hem where he works. “How do you know I’m here for work?”

 

“You look the type.”

 

“Huh. The type?”

 

“Tired.” The hands depart, each sliding sideways to hug along Tony’s flanks. They crawl upward, kneading the ribs. Tony instinctively holds his breath, until Steve returns to his shoulders. “Anxious, is the word, I believe.”

 

“… Right.”

 

“And your company pays your one-week stay here a month in advance, with spa packages. You have a generous employer.”

 

Steve’s hands leave his body momentarily and Tony hears spurts of oil. It makes him think of a couple of things, neither are wholesome, and when the hands slap over the patch of skin over his hip, Tony almost yelps. The hands are warm, so much warmer than before, so much _slicker_ , and they slip under the towel. Tony swears his heart stop beating when Steve pushes past the flesh, thumbs slightly digging into the crevice of his buttocks, before they slide over his thighs and calves. Then they come up again, and Tony tenses.

 

“Breathe, Mr Stark.”

 

Rough finger pads scrape against the underside of his scrotum, and Tony finds it really tough to compute what Steve has just said.

 

“Turn around. Face up.”

 

No, no, no –

 

“What?”

 

“Lie on your back. Let me attend to your front.”

 

But Tony stays put, even when Steve stops padding around the room in search for an excuse to afford Tony some privacy. No amount of towel adjusting can hide his raging erection, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to acknowledge the fact that a man’s touch is enough to send all the blood gushing to his downstairs brain.

 

Tony’s cheeks have never seen more colour and heat.

 

Steve clears his throat. His eyes – deep set and piercing blue, Tony sees them now – never wander, and they hold Tony’s gaze with respect. “Whatever it is you’re experiencing right now, is pretty normal and happens regularly with the other male clients we get here. It’s the body’s natural response to touches, even one as clinical as this.”

 

Hold thy horses there, Steve. There is _nothing_ clinical about accidental rubbing against the balls.

 

Tony finally obliges, and slowly turns around and replaces his head on the pillow. He tries not to squirm so much, or _think_ too much about how bizarre his dick must’ve looked like, pitching a tent under the small square of towel about his waist. He stares right up at the ceiling, and swallows thickly when Steve taps him on his wrist.

 

“You can stop me anytime you want to end the session.”

 

“That’s uh…” Thoughtful. “I’m fine. Please, go on.”

 

“… Very well.”

 

He doesn’t have abdominal muscles as prominent as Steve’s – not that he can see what lies underneath the uniform Steve has on – and the way Steve’s hands knead his stomach nags renews Tony’s resolution to sign up for a gym membership. His erection remains as steadfast as ever, much to his embarrassment, yet Steve makes no more reference to it. He skips the flimsy towel once he’s done lovingly caressing those angular hipbones and focuses on the fleshier aspect of Tony’s thighs. Again, Steve’s hands wander dangerously close under the towel, and good God, Tony doesn’t think, doesn’t wait – he parts his legs and belatedly berates himself for being so goddam _easy._ Steve takes the bait. He goes higher, and higher, and Tony gets harder with each press and prod of those deft fingers.

 

He’s leaking precum into the towel, as it dutifully soaks it all up.

 

 _Please, please, please_ –

 

Thumbs slide along the crest of his pelvis, narrowly avoiding where it matters the most _._ Tony closes his eyes – has them squeezed shut for good measure – and he loses himself completely. He takes in the teases, the hemming and hawing –

 

“That’s all for today, Mr Stark.”

 

His lungs inflate gratefully with air, as Steve draws back to his full height, already wiping his oil-coated hands with a fresh towel. “We’re done for today. You can schedule for another slot tomorrow or the day after. The front desk will handle the booking.”

 

After Steve leaves, Tony tucks himself painfully into his sweatpants, and wonder if the next time, he should also ask specifically for Steve. Just in case.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony only realises how far gone he is when the receptionist tells him the next day that Steve is on leave.

 

“We have other masseurs on duty today. One of them has a slot open at five. I can book you an hour with Clint?”

 

“That… won’t be necessary, thanks. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

 

“Sure thing, Mr Stark. Have a good day.”

 

“By the way, is Steve gonna be in tomorrow?”

 

Lucky for him, losing his goddam mind in the late evening over wanton distractions isn’t penalizable. There’s nobody to impress, or presentations to kill today and tomorrow. Can’t imagine how sharp he’ll be on his feet, so preoccupied with nursing a near-perpetual boner. He mopes around his hotel room, alone, desperate for some cheap company. Not his first time… but those few weren’t his proudest moments either.

 

There’s always the alcohol in the minibar. Tony downs two cans of Bud in thirty minutes, swearing to heaven and earth that he will _not_ acquaint his very needy dick with his hand, not for a hunky masseur whose full name he doesn’t even know. Steve. Steve, Steve, _Steve_ –

 

… Fuck it all to hell.

 

Time seems to crawl after an early dinner, but it waits for no man. First thing that day before even his first cup of coffee, Tony calls the receptionist and almost swallows his tongue when a familiar voice answers it.

 

“Spa Pendry, how can I help you?”

 

The chirpy quality to the speaker’s baritone flashes down Tony’s spine and right into his crotch. “Uh, hello. I’m calling from Suite 616 –”

 

“Mr Stark? I do suspect it is you.”

 

Does he even want to play this game? “Hey, Steve. Back from your leave, I see. How did it go?”

 

“About as well as an annual physical usually goes.”

 

“Yikes.”

 

Steve hums into his receiver, and Tony hears paper flapping on Steve’s side. “So, four fifteen is available. Do you want to come by then?”

 

Tony hesitates a fraction. “Your slot?”

 

“Yes.” Steve’s laughter is as light as sunshine, Tony’s first in hearing Steve speak so carefreely. “Four fifteen it is. I’ll see you, Mr Stark.”

 

Four fifteen on the dot and Tony is rock hard down there by the time he reaches the spa. Steve is already waiting for him, seated in a distant corner folding towels. He nods and smiles at Tony, crowfeet showing despite his youth, and gestures at the massage bed. Feels almost routine. Tony takes off his clothes and piles them in a large woven basket. He puts on the same flimsy pants without bothering to turn his back against Steve.

 

The hair on his neck stands on end when Steve stops folding his towels. His ego and downstairs brain hazard a guess and say his proud erection has commanded Steve’s attention. He quickly slips into the flimsy paper pants on when Steve’s chair scrapes against the floor. 

 

“Shall we try something different this time? Sit up please.”

 

Tony is already halfway down when he straightens his elbows and turn to face Steve. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Sit up. I’ve something different for you. Don’t worry, no extra charges.”

 

That’s beside the point… but Tony obliges, and he folds his legs carefully under him. He can feel his sinews protesting.

 

“Close your eyes. Deep breath.” His world darkens, and he trusts Steve’s mesmerising voice to guide his way. “Hold it in. Three, two… one. Exhale, slowly. Three, two, one. Deep breath… three, two, one…” Steve’s voice is a constant, his mantra of calm and reason, and it comes from his left. “Keep going. I’m starting the procedure.”

 

Tony’s painfully aware of his lungs expanding and constricting when Steve flattens a palm right atop his breast. Another one steadies him in the small of his back, and he regulates his breathing once more to Steve’s orders. In and out, in and out… Steve’s little finger just brushed against his right nipple, and his cock rises to scrape against the garter.

 

Then a phone rings obnoxiously from the basket, and Steve’s hands leap away. Tony would’ve dropped a cluster bomb of choice words if not for the lingering sensation of five fingers trailing the groove of his sternum and ribs.

 

“Here you go.” Steve has so kindly fetched his screaming phone for him.

 

“Thank you. Oh… dammit.” Count on work to be the most effective boner killer. If only he could say they-don’t-pay-him-enough-for-this-shit, but they do. Have at that. “One minute, Steve. I’m so sorry about this.”

 

As Tony bullshits over the phone to save his hide and buy himself more time on the negotiations, Steve keeps his hands to a polite kneading around the shoulders. As the conversation gets more heated – read, Tony realises the purpose of this call isn’t just-checking but more like buck-up- incompetent-sack-of-shit – Steve lifts himself so he, too is kneeling on the massage bed, with his front almost flushed against Tony’s back. A hand comes to Tony’s front, and sits atop the crevice of his chest once more, minding its own business.

 

“No, they’re here to make money, not charity, and I need to convince them that we can turn around three-million-dollar into something more! You got to give me something better. The last survival analyses isn’t cutting it.”

 

The hands go down, down, down, and they clamp around the knees. There’s a bit of force applied, and Tony unfolds his legs, letting them hang freely off the bed like he’s straddling it. He much prefers his lotus pose, this one is not great for balance, so he’s forced to lean backward into Steve’s chest.

 

“Now we’re finally on the same page. Thank you. Oh, no, too soon. Call me again tomorrow and _maybe_ you can open that caviar.”

 

Just as he sets his phone on his pillow, Steve’s right hand creeps up to his throat. Oily fingers unfurl to choke him – they’re loose, but Tony has stopped breathing – and a gust of warm air billows by his earlobe. “I remind you, Mr Stark, you can end this anytime.” And Steve’s free hand drops inside his pants to pump along his unyielding cock.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony’s first instinct is to scream, but the first sound that escapes his lips betrays him, and his back arches into Steve’s grip. Neither holds back, and Tony feels the urge to scream again. Twice, thrice, he quells it, surrendering to the goddam urge. Never in his life, alright? Never, to have his junk pleasured by another man, and to want it. He craves it – the friction, the heat. Give it all to him.

 

And it’s over in four minutes. Like a fucking teenager, he empties his load into Steve’s palm in agonising silence – shoot him if he yodels like a bitch, even if the best night he had with a Barbara-what’s-her-face one Valentine’s can’t hold a candle to this. He should’ve kept his cool and macho and thank Steve for his service like a champ, but instead he finds his butt stuck to the massage bed, not quite knowing what to say or do.

 

Steve’s the pro. He politely removes himself from Tony, and backs away to the corner of the room where his stacks of folded towels are. “Are you alright, Mr Stark?”

 

“… Yeah. Yeah, I’m uh…” He clears his throat and leaps off the bed in an instant, one arm already reaching out for his bathrobes. Not his, probably, he doesn’t think he comes in them, but the robes are there, and he’s a paying customer, so God help him. “Thanks, Steve.”

 

“You’re welcome. Remember to sign off at the front desk. Have a good evening, Mr Stark.”

 

Tony fastens his sash around his waist, scoops his clothes in one arm and bolts. His limp dick slaps back and forth between his thighs, disgustingly slick inside his paper shorts. A sodden memory of him – _him,_ whom his saintly colleagues describe as always knee-deep in pussies on Friday nights – getting off after a handjob. By another male.

 

Not the straightest thing in the world to do.

 

But it wasn’t… bad. It wasn’t bad at all. It was decent. More than decent. Tony leaves Steve a large tip with the lady attending to him at the front desk. This neither changes nor validates anything. It’s providing reward commensurate to the quality of service rendered.

 

For the life of him, he cannot sleep a wink that night. He lies in his large bed, alone and cold under all the sheets, still feeling the ghost of Steve’s fingers on his cock. It stands proud and erect in his sweatpants just thinking about it, that he spends a good half-an-hour squatting under a cold shower and downing a pot of coffee after. Sleep is for the weak anyway, and he soldiers through the night working on market analysis. The best boner killer in town.

 

And then, and then, and then, he screws up bigtime at the next pitch, by virtue of _missing_ the fucking appointment.

 

“I can’t _believe_ this, Stark! Do you have any idea – _any idea!_ – how long it took us to schedule that meeting with Ackard? How many strings I have to pull to get you that forty-five minutes, and you what, _forgot_ about it?”

 

They would’ve fired his ass there and then. His near-immaculate track record of securing grants after grants in the last five years sets him back with only a thorough chewing out, that by the end of the call, Tony cuts the line with a sharp jab on the screen and promptly pitches his phone into his pillow. These distractions... What gives? He's conquered projects of worse monetary value. He's convinced Luddites to invest in omics technology. He could've sold sins to saints, and this is -

 

He needs to get a better hold of himself. 

 

Spa Pendry calls his room direct three times in a row that afternoon, and Tony plain ignores them. One problem at a time, and he’s got a thousand and one others served on a silver platter. He puts on a well-worn tracksuit and heads for the gym, see if he could sweat all the bad luck out. Said gym is conveniently located on the same floor as the spa, but on the opposite wing. What are the odds of bumping into a staff from the fucking spa? He kills his phone, stows it into his pockets, and begins his descend to the fifth floor. The elevator door opens and –

 

“Mr Stark, I did not expect to see you today.”

 

Tony almost walks into a five-feet tall Dracaena shrub on his exit. “Steve,” he greets chirpily. “Hey there.” Steve the masseur, who else is there, as kismet will have it. All decked out in his uniform that flatters all the right bulges and angles.

 

“We called your room this afternoon but you didn’t pick up. Natasha was wondering if you forgot to book a slot today.”

 

Wrong operative word there. It was a deliberate effort to stay the hell clear from the circus. Clearly to no avail, is it? “I’ll tell you what, Steve. I’m having a go at the treadmill now, so I’ll come to the spa in an hour half.”

 

“Four thirty, then?”

 

“It’s a date.” Tony winks at Steve, and hightails in the opposite direction. Somewhere between a decent speed on the tracks and building lactic acid in his quadriceps femoris muscle, he receives an automated text message to confirm his slot with the spa at four thirty. His only reply is a stream of cuss words under his breath as he trades the treadmill for a sandbag.

 

What’s new about this anyway that sends him up the wall, making him so anxious and jumpy? Sex has always been his go-to choice of entertainment. There’s sadly no cunts in the vicinity, but handjobs are handjobs. If Steve keeps his mouth shut as Tony closes his eyes and pretends there’s a set of boobs hanging in his face, he’s golden.

 

Four thirty sharp, Tony emerges fresh from the shower and strolls into Steve’s designated room. Steve is already waiting, the bed prepared and the lights dimmed. There’s no expectation, no signs, no preambles, and Tony’s got his game face on. He’s the man, the alpha, and no amount of teases and sexual gratification will shake him up and his identity. He lies on his back with his legs parted from the get-go, his cock already at full mass in his pants.

 

Steve gets the message, if _that_ is a message at all. And Tony relents. He sighs into the touch, well-oiled fingers cradling his balls, as Steve’s other hand rolls his cock against his inner thigh. He even raises his hip helpfully when Steve makes to slide his pants off, fully parading his junk for the first time. Nothing wrong with two willing adults having a little fun.

 

At the heat of the moment, as Steve stoops over him – now squeezing and tugging at the tip of his cock – he does the unthinkable. He’s a generous lover, what can he say? If Steve wants it, he can have it. The fun usually goes both ways, and he’s nice like that.

 

Only, Steve is as limp as a half-filled water balloon. Maybe a quarter-way rigid after a couple of squeezing, and Tony quickly removes his encroaching hands from Steve’s crotch – already conveniently placed in his face. That’s when it hits him, both the force of his imminent ejaculation, and the deed he’s done. The deadweight in his stomach doesn’t ease up when Steve excuses himself from the room right after – the first time he’s ever left Tony to a vacant space at the end of a session.

 

Tony leaves yet another large tip for Steve with the front desk, and returns to his room.

 

He can’t sleep a wink that night again. He gives up lying in bed and goes to stand by the floor-to-ceiling window. He rests his forehead against the cool glass, occasionally bangs it against the wooden frame until the first glow of the sun paints his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Coming to San Diego has been a rite of passage for Tony. A pilgrimage for his soul that ends up with him questioning every fibre of his being. It’s unravelling even the more tangible aspect of it – his career, his potential and value – which isn’t great for self-esteem. It’s his sixth day in the city, his sixth day in Pendry. He’s packing and leaving tomorrow after breakfast, without a single contract signed, sealed and delivered to his mother company in Boston.

 

He is _so_ getting fired this time. No more lifelines.

 

Tony stretches his limbs over the expanse of the sofa, and almost upsets the half-filled glass of scotch he’s holding. He blew his final chance big time, stumbling over facts of science and medical ethics. He tiptoed around issues on cost containment and efficacy, risks and responsibilities –

 

He wonders just how rosily tinted the glasses these money-pinching, myopic agencies are looking out of, if they could even _try_ to rationalise reducing the frugal amount of money tentatively being offered. Profit turnover, labour costs and litigation fees are expensive considerations, and don’t get him started about all the variables when dealing with biological systems.

 

“There are too many uncertainties on the drawing board, Mr Stark.”

 

This _is_ the road less travelled. This is _the_ innovation. A novelty concept that comes with several million dollars price tag, so good God, how much certainties are they expecting to work with?

 

Tony sets his glass on the coffee table and yawns. Money is what makes the world go round. Money is probably the only reason girls keep throwing themselves at him. They never thanked him for his magnificent lovemaking skills, only the wad of cash he stuffs in their bras and panties. Hell, money gave him the best wanking he ever had.

 

He needs another helping of that scotch.

 

It’s near lunchtime, but screw that. And everything else. The battery in his phone is running low, and it’s still feet away from its charging dock, unplugged, uncared for. Just him on this cushy sofa, and a throw pillow over his face.

 

The suite’s phone rang next to his head, and sends him jumping an inch into the air.

 

“Hello, this is Spa Pendry,” a male voice greets him. _The_ male voice, actually. “I’m wondering if you’d like to book your last session with us this evening?”

 

Tony chucks the pillow off his face and chuckles. “Hey, Steve. You know it’s my last night here, huh?”

 

“A quick check on the registry tells me when you’re checking out.”

 

“And you checked because you needed to fill up paperwork to bill my company.”

 

“… We aim to provide our customers with the best experience –”

 

“OK, how about…” Tony lurches from the sofa and wobbles on his feet a second. That’s enough scotch for the day. “You guys do room service?”

 

“… It’s not the spa’s policy for staff to do private visitations –”

 

“Best experience and services you say, hmm?” Shut his blabbering, incoherent trap _pronto_. “There’s plenty of space for a massage in the living room. This whole suite is larger than your room downstairs. Who do I need to call? Your supervisor? Get them on the line, I’ll talk to them.”

 

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll… be there.”

 

When Steve hangs up and Tony has precious few seconds thereafter to fully process what he’d just said and done, he groans audibly and collapses butt first into the sofa again. Cradling his head in his palms and chanting _fuck-fuck-fuck_ , he presses the heels of his palms into his eyeballs until he sees stars. He should’ve just gouged them up with a spoon and be done with this.

 

He doesn’t know how long he sat in the sofa until he hears the tell-tale rattling of a trolley outside his corridor. He gives himself a once over in the reflection of a glass-doored bookcase – making sure he has at least pants on – and gets the door. Steve is already there, one hand reaching out for the bell.

 

“Steve.” The syllable inflects with genuine surprise. “You came.”

 

“… Is this a bad time? I assume it is now –”

 

“No – no. This isn’t…” And Tony can’t keep the pretence up anymore. He steps out of the room and would’ve stood right inside Steve’s personal space if not for a tactful retreat on the latter’s part, and promptly closes the door behind him. “I am so, _so_ sorry for – everything. I’m not…” Tony waves a hand frantically between them, his forehead creasing as he searches for the right vocabulary. “I was an asshole, for pulling that off, and I want to apologise. I was, well…”

 

“Drunk,” Steve adds helpfully.

 

“I wasn’t, but now I’m uh, inebriated somewhat. How can you tell?”

 

“… Unless what I’m smelling is your cologne, then I must be mistaken.”

 

Tony huffs in indignance, and shakes his head. “Right. Well, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest.” He reaches back for his door knob.

 

“Mr Stark, I’m obligated to charge you for last-minute cancellations, so you might as well –”

 

Tony tries the door again. It stubbornly remains stuck, so he tries harder, again and again, until the door rattle in its frame and Steve squints at it. “Try your keycard.”

 

Tony frisks himself and turns his pockets inside out, and his chin goes slack.

 

“Housekeeping is in an hour or so. Have your lunch and come back, you’ll be just in time to catch our attendant. Or, I can call the management for a spare keycard. This happens regularly, so.”

 

Tony runs his fingers through his hair, and splutters the one thing that’s perhaps, the most sensible thing he ever spouted today. “Join me for lunch?”

 

Steve might say no. Does that explain his tachycardia? “Since I’m already booked, why not?”

 

“Great. Uh, I left my wallet in the room, too.”

 

“It’s my treat, Mr Stark.” Steve stoops to lock the drawers installed in his trolley, a wan smile tugging on his lips. “Since you’re not getting the massage anyway, consider this a refund.”

 

“Thank you. And it’s Tony.” He extends a hand which Steve shakes, and is immensely relieved knowing that it’s still possible to have skin contact with his masseur that doesn’t immediately translate into a raging boner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lordy, I think I need *one* more chapter. And the cheese is thick in this one *sigh*

Tony doesn’t remember if he asked for the egg mayonnaise or chicken sandwich to go with his coffee, and he certainly doesn’t recall how he ordered said coffee, which never happens. He _does_ remember how many teaspoons of sugar Steve adds into his tea – none – and that Steve doesn’t like jalapeno in his burgers. It’s fascinating – watching Steve – and savouring life by the second. He’s lunching with his eyes not glued to his phone or laptop for a change. He’s not thinking about a two o’clock appointment. This must be what wise men say to stop to smell the roses. Steve does smell something pleasant… it draws him in –

 

“Mr Stark?”

 

Tony averts his eyes and clears his throat. “It’s Tony.” He prods at his sandwich once. “So, how long have you been working at Pendry?”

 

“Two years and a half. I’m moving soon, in fact. This is my last month here.”

 

“Oh?” Tony cocks an eyebrow. “Where to? A new job?”

 

“Boston. I’m going back to school.”

 

Not one to judge a book by its cover, but Steve looks a decade younger than Tony, easy. A young man with ambitions. Tony remembers what it was like at the age, before he parks his soul behind a mahogany desk in a corner office on the fiftieth floor. “What a coincidence. I live there.”

 

“Cetta Therapeutics in headquartered there. We know.”

 

“… Sure you all do.” Tony clears his throat some more, and pulls his cup of coffee to his lips. “So, going back to school, huh? Which one? What programme?”

 

“Harvard.”

 

Tony promptly chokes on his first gulp.

 

“Sports Science. You seem surprised.”

 

“I did not… I mean, it’s not everyday I bump into, you know, people who qualify for Harvard.” One glance at the way Steve chomps on his burger tells Tony that Steve doesn’t buy his bullshit. His fault, again. For being a presumptuous little shit. Is it truly that surprising for a specimen like this to _not_ have cotton for brains?

 

He’s objectifying Steve again.

 

Tony drains his steaming coffee in one big gulp, welcoming the sear in his throat. It feels a little hotter under his collar, and Tony wishes the chair he’s seated in could swallow him whole. Nothing about this is natural. From across the table, Steve is watching him pointedly. He thumbs a stray morsel off his lip.

 

“You can only imagine what it’s like being in this industry. Much worse has been… presumed of me. A common misunderstanding. I’ve learned not to take things too personally.”

 

Tony hums and takes a particularly huge bite off his sandwich. It’s not difficult to read in between the lines, and pray tell why would clients mistake Steve for something else – sarcasm fully implied. Perhaps keeping his fucking hands to himself would help stay away the scandalous assumptions. And right on cue, Tony’s dick does a little stir, so he shoves the last of his sandwich into his mouth.

 

“Do you want to order anything else?”

 

Face still stuffed, Tony shakes his head, so Steve leaves to foot the bill. The journey back to Tony’s room and Steve’s trolley is remarkably chatter-free. Being stuck in the elevator together – alone – for all of ten seconds feels intoxicating. It’s inexplicable, and Tony is quick to blame his hormone going wackadoo on stress. After he gets fired – it’s inevitable, at this rate – he’s immersing himself in iniquity and rewriting the Kama Sutra for pocket money.

 

“I got you a spare key card from the reception just now,” says Steve, as he presses the plastic piece into Tony’s palm. “In case we miss housekeeping.”

 

“… Fantastic customer service indeed. Thank you.”

 

“All right, then. I should get going.”

 

Tony catches himself before he could yank Steve back by his wrist. “Hey, want to drop in for coffee?” He blinks intelligently. “ _Another_ cup of coffee is always good.”

 

“… Lunch time is over for me. I should be –”

 

“Let me at least repay you for lunch, hmm? My wallet’s inside.” He’s _pleading._ What is wrong with him?

 

“… OK.”

 

Tony holds the door open long enough for Steve to walk in. Every step feels loaded, seems hesitant. Tony makes a beeline for his bedroom. “Have a seat,” he shouts. “I swear I left my wallet here.” It’s not on his nightstand. Perhaps in one of these drawers installed into the study desk? He’ll be darned if he finds it here, he doesn’t like drawers much, such hassle. A shadow looms over him –

 

“What are you –”

 

He hears the bedroom door snaps shut, and _Steve’s_ arms are bracketing him, as he is still stooping over the desk.

 

“Looking for this?” Steve’s question is a breath away from his earlobe. “I found it on the coffee table outside.” His wallet has strangely made its way into Steve’s hand.

 

“… Thanks.”

 

Steve’s proximity is claustrophobic, and his heart thumps maddeningly in his ribs. He tries to tear himself away from the desk, and backs into Steve, who for reasons unknown remains steadfastly rooted to the ground – and inside Tony’s personal space. A warm gust of air blows past his nape. “I know what else you’re looking for.”

 

And Steve grinds into his back. There is no mistake. What was absent in the massage room is fully eager in the privacy of Tony’s bedroom. Tony reinforces his grip on the edge of the desk, and steadies himself against Steve’s erection. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, Tony,” Steve asks. “Tell me to stop. I will.”

 

“… I don’t want to presume, but –”

 

“It’s what people think of me. I’ve no issue with it.” There’s no sugarcoating, no pretence in Steve’s urges. Tony groans at his own surging desires, but he pushes back. He’s not into _men_ –

 

“Why does it matter, you and I? You need this as much I do. May I, Tony?” Steve’s nose nuzzles against the crook of his shoulder. He’s _so_ hard, and each thrust of his hip chips away at Tony’s resolve. “ _Let me_. I’ll show you.”

 

Breathlessly, Tony turns his head around. He only wants to look Steve in the eyes, to _make sure._ Just one lousy second before he replies, “Yes.”


	7. Chapter 7

Steve’s chapped lips burn against his skin. His shirt is a day’s old and doesn’t smell like fabric softener anymore. It still gets in the way, and Steve growls when he can’t access more than he should like. It all goes down to Tony’s crotch. He needs a sign. He elbows Steve gently in the ribs. He grits his teeth against the little gasps he would’ve unleased and regretted.

 

“Needy, huh?”

 

Steve drops his hand to Tony’s waist, and squeezes. His knee buckles and collides painfully with the stupid drawer of the desk. He turns around and leans his butt against the wood, and stares at Steve eyeball to eyeball. Daring. A sly smirk is plastered over Steve’s face, but it’s not unkind. He figures how his own mug looks like – given current circumstances – and it probably shows, because Steve’s grubby paws hesitate over the front of his zipper.

He wants it, he doesn’t want it, he wants it, he got to _think_ about it –

 

“Say stop, and I will,” Steve promises again in a whisper as he leans in… and Tony promptly cocks his chin sideway. That’s all on the brainstem. Reflex. Steve gets the hint and backs up somewhat, but something inside Tony shrivel up a little. He’s still rock hard – guy downstairs probably does a cheer of its own when Steve cups him in a palm – and he thrusts into it. He welcomes the heat, the friction, and he can’t stop –

 

The whizz of a zipper being pulled down cuts through the hanging tension. His button comes undone. The belt buckle catches the glow of the recessed lighting above. Steve drops to his knees next, and all kinds of alarms go off in Tony’s noggin. He reclines further into the desk, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

 

Cool breeze hits his inner thighs. Piles of clothes pool around his ankles – his own boxer shorts among the discard.

 

Tony is lost as Steve engulfs him whole in his mouth. His hand flies to clutch at the top of Steve’s head instinctively, stray strands of hair peeking between his white-knuckled fingers. His back arches into the warmness and slickness of what he thought as forbidden. He can’t stop. He’s gone off the deep end and he doesn’t care if this becomes one of _those_ moments that he wishes he were senile enough to remember in decades to come.

 

Steve isn’t a quiet worker. His head bobs with vigour, and he slurps. Saliva dribbles down his chin; the glistening track so clear for Tony to see when Steve changes angle to get _that_ much depth in.

 

“Steve. _Steve_ –”

 

They’re rocking the fucking table, and it’s banging ceaselessly against the wall. What is his neighbour going to _think_? How good is the soundproofing in Pendry suites?

 

He’s gonna come.

 

He almost scalped Steve in his urgency. Shame on him when he _whines_ as Steve stops and spits his cock out of a bruised mouth. Still holding his gaze, Tony loses himself in the blueness of Steve’s eyes as more clothes join the pool on the floor. Steve’s. Bare from the waist-down, Steve swipes excess saliva and precum coating the length of Tony’s cock and slaps them over his own. That can’t be too hygienic – Tony still has _some_ presence of mind left to process that – and distantly remembers getting himself checked last year for STDs. He rotates bed partners as quickly as he goes through his Bacardi stash, so.

 

He closes his eyes when Steve aligns his cock to his, and pumps. Someone’s thumping on the wall – that’s definitely a neighbour’s non-verbal for fuck-quietly-or-else. They’re going to have to do the walk of shame afterwards –

 

“ _Shit_ – I –”

 

His hand darts out to ball up the collar of Steve’s masseur garb. The hem of his shirt lifts, confirming all of Tony’s filthy what-lies-beneath. Steve’s lower abdomen clenches with rhythm. He’s close to the brink. _He_ wants this, and that’s enough to hurl Tony off that he rides his climax with his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his body curled into Steve with the force. He’s making a mess between them and he doesn’t fucking care, and it dazzles when Steve goes on to jack himself to completion.

 

It doesn’t feel right either handing Steve the money he owes for lunch – and some. He sends Steve to the door and shuts it without another word, but runs after Steve anyway just to pass him a Cetta Therapeutics name card with his personal phone number scribbled on the back. Steve takes it politely, and Tony watches it disappear into his uniform’s breast pocket.

 

Saturday morning, six hours before his flight back to Boston, Tony’s week-long business trip hasn’t amounted to anything tangible. No deals cut, no contracts signed. He thought of saying his goodbyes to Steve at the spa – his luggage in tow – but miraculously finding himself flagging for a cab on the curb nevertheless. Pendry Hotel looms in the rear-view mirror as they dash down the highway. Tony adjusts his necktie, and casts his view out of the window.

 

What happens in San Diego, stays in San Diego.


End file.
